Then she saw it had rolled along the deck, fallen off the edge, and down onto a dirty corner of the lower deck, which was closed off for their event. Stella sighed. Just what she needed. She knew she couldn’t reach it. Her options were to find a staff member and see if they would let her down onto the lower level. Or she could morph into bat form and snag it.
If she hadn’t consumed a large quantity of alcohol she might have reasoned out that option two wasn’t really much of an option as bats are generally not equipped to hold cell phones. She realized this a minute later and did what any drunk vampire would do—she tried to morph back on the tiny landing, promptly fell, and wound up face-first in the Mississippi before she was even sure what had happened.
It was cold. Wet. Dirty. And smelled like rotting fish and grease. Without hesitation, she went back into bat form, terrified she might swallow some of that seriously unhygienic river water. Granted, it wasn’t Dublin at the turn of the century, which had been a complete cesspool, but she was convinced there was a fair amount of funky in the Mississippi. As a vampire, she wasn’t going to catch a skin disease, but that didn’t make it any less gross.
Being in bat form wasn’t necessarily her favorite thing. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d done it. Probably in the ’80s right along with her last sexual activity. She’d been in a phase then involving teased hair and a love of spandex. Sometimes it had been nice to escape high-maintenance fashion and fly around.
Now she just wanted back to herself.
Only when she tried to morph back on the deck, she couldn’t.
What the hell.
She tried again.
Nothing.
It would seem she was drunker than she had realized.
Fabulous. She got to fly around until she sobered up. Just what she always wanted to do. Maybe she could lick some coffee to speed up the process.
When Wyatt reappeared on the deck a minute later, calling her name, she hid, suddenly embarrassed. She didn’t want him to see her like that. Which was stupid, but she was stupid. That’s what had been established in the last twenty-four hours. She was a big old idiot.
Besides, he would wonder why she didn’t change back and as a bat she couldn’t exactly tell him.
“Stella?” He stopped on the deck and looked around. When he spotted her purse, he swore.
He picked it up.
And that was the last thing Stella remembered that night.
Wyatt put Stella’s bag over his shoulder, calling her name again. He was worried. She never went anywhere without that purse. And there was nowhere to go on the deck but in the water. Leaning over, he scanned the river. No sign of her. But her phone was a few feet down on a ledge, and he reached for it, snagging it with one hand.
Leaning over made his head spin. Damn, he felt weird. Drunk, but a strange kind of drunk.
Woozy.
Climbing up onto the railing, because it seemed like the thing to do, Wyatt yelled, “Stella!” at the top of his lungs, suddenly feeling like he might have lost her forever.
“Stella!”
And that was the last thing Wyatt remembered that night.
Chapter Three
A PARROT, A PRIEST, AND THE SLIGHT PROBLEM OF AN EXTRA VAMPIRE
R
EALLY?
Damned sirens again?
Cort groaned, determinedly hauling the covers over his head.
Couldn’t these damned humans make it through one day of partying without the medics coming to deal with some idiot who drank seventeen hand grenades and now had alcohol poisoning? Or was it a couple of macho superegos who’d gotten into a barroom brawl, probably over a woman they both just met that night.
The siren wailed again as if to answer. Hell, no. They couldn’t manage that. But this was Bourbon Street—what did Cort expect?
He tugged the blankets tighter around his ears, but that didn’t help. In fact, it was starting to sound like the incessant wailing was coming from inside his apartment rather than down on the street below.
Shit, sleep wasn’t going to happen with this racket going on. Letting out a low growl, he shot upright, only to clasp his head as a ripping pain threatened to split his skull.
“What the fuck.”
He remained totally still, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with him. Then after several seconds, he carefully parted one eyelid, then the other.
The colored lights from Bourbon Street glared brightly through the windows, and he winced as another wail ricocheted off the walls of his apartment.
Shit, he knew what was wrong with him, even though he wasn’t sure how it could be. He hadn’t experienced one of these in nearly two hundred years, but even after all that time, there was no forgetting the blinding pain in his head, the roil of his stomach, and the feeling he’d just eaten flour straight from the bag.
“Shiiit, I have a hangover.”
Cort lifted his head from his hands, pretty sure he hadn’t said this realization aloud. He squinted across his room only to discover he wasn’t sleeping in his room, but rather on the living room couch under . . . a woman’s coat?
He looked in the direction from where he thought the comment had come. A heap near the window moved. As the shadowy figure slowly sat up, Cort made out long, golden hair and almost angelic features.
Saxon. His band’s keyboard player.
“Oh, dude, my head.”
Cort wasn’t always sure about the newest bandmate, but in this instance he had to agree. Shit, his head hurt, too.
Of course, it made sense the keyboard player might have a headache. Saxon was a relative baby in vampire terms, and he still had some lingering human weaknesses. But Cort’s vampire constitution was far beyond mundane ailments like a hangover.
Another wail echoed through the room and agonizingly through Cort’s throbbing head.
Okay, obviously not. This was definitely a hangover. Damn, he needed some blood, but getting up off the couch, lumpy as it was, and heading to the fridge seemed like far too much work.
“What the hell happened last night?” came another groggy, miserable voice from the worn, oversized chair in the corner.
Cort saw Wyatt, The Impalers’ bass player, slumped forward in the chair, his hands sinking into the tangle of his long, dark hair. Cort didn’t answer, but he did try to search his aching brain. What the hell had happened?
“Dude, all I remember is dust in the wind,” Saxon said, collapsing back into a heap.
“What does that even mean?” Cort asked, not bothering to hide his irritation with Saxon’s cryptic comment. Leave it to Saxon to quote classic rock in some misled attempt to be deep. The mentally challenged should never, never try to be deep. Especially when he felt this damned shitty.
Saxon lifted his head and frowned, which gave him the appearance of a wounded angel. “It means all I remember was dumping Johnny’s ashes over the side of the riverboat.”
Johnny’s ashes. Johnny’s ashes. Shit, Johnny Malone was dead. That’s where they’d all been last night, on a riverboat, giving him his final send-off. Saxon was being literal. Damn.
How could Cort have forgotten Johnny’s wake? The loss of their bandmate had been rough on all of them, from the newest to the oldest member. Cort fell somewhere in the middle.
“That’s all I remember, too,” Wyatt said, then groaned as another wail filled the room. “What the hell is up with that noise?”
This time there was no denying that the sound was getting closer. Not to mention, this time the piercing screech was followed by the sound of footfalls and a frenzied commotion of someone tearing down Cort’s hallway.
Cort, Wyatt, and Saxon all sat upright as a woman dashed wildly into the room. She stopped just inside the doorway, her hair wild, her eyes huge, and her whole body heaving with panicked breaths. Her terrified gaze moved over each of them, but no one spoke. Only her uneven breathing reverberated through the room
Finally Saxon made a snorting sound and stated, “That was unexpected.”
Cort frowned, even though he didn’t totally disagree, but then he returned his attention to the woman, who he was starting to recognize behind her tangle of honey-colored hair.
“Katie?” he said tentatively.
She made a small noise, which he wasn’t sure was agreement or just more panic, but he didn’t need her to confirm. He knew it was Katie. He’d spent enough time watching her to recognize her even in this disheveled state.
Katie Lambert, the washboard player from the day band at the bar where The Impalers played at night. He couldn’t say they were friends exactly, but he certainly knew her. They’d spoken many times, and he was always aware when she’d stay after her set was done and watch them play. She was hard to miss with her pretty, pixielike face and infectious smile.
Hell, he could even admit that a couple of times he’d imagined what it would be like to take her to bed. Okay, more than a couple—more like dozens. And dozens.
But that still didn’t explain what she was doing in his apartment. Looking like . . . damn, what had happened to her?
Even though he was in pain and really didn’t want to move—maybe ever—Cort eased himself off the couch and started toward her, his movements slow, partly because of feeling like shit and partly because she looked like she might bolt if he approached her too quickly.
“Katie? Are you okay?” he asked softly.
She stared at him, her eyes frantic and glassy. He wasn’t sure she’d even heard him, then she shook her head.
“Not really.”
Her response was oddly calm, given all the screaming she’d been doing—unless that hadn’t been her.
Dear God, please don’t let there be more than one hysterical woman in his apartment.
Cort pushed that horrifying thought aside. “What’s wrong? Do you know what you are doing here?”
Maybe she knew what clearly none of his friends did, but she quickly dashed that hope.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice reedy. “I woke up in someone’s room, but I have no idea how I got here.”
In someone’s bedroom. That meant either his bed, or his roommate, Drake’s, and truthfully neither option sat well with Cort.
“But—but I seem to have a larger—problem,” she said, her usually upbeat and happy voice trembling.
“What?” Cort’s stomach churned, this time not at the threat of losing his lack of lunch, but because obviously something awful happened to her. And he might have been there and didn’t even remember what it was.
She hesitated, then straightened as if bracing herself. She swept the mass of blonde hair away from her very pale face and looked at each of the men in the room, then back to Cort.
“You are going to think I’m absolutely insane,” she said. “But I seem to be”—she paused, clearly not knowing how to go on, but finally she just blurted it out—“I think I’m a vampire.”
Cort was certain she expected some sort of reaction to her statement, but he highly doubted it was the one she got.
“What the hell,” Wyatt said. “We’ve always said no crossing over coworkers. We don’t shit in our own backyard.”
“I didn’t do it,” Saxon said, shaking his head adamantly, his eyes wide. “Man, I didn’t do it. No way, dude. Nooo way.”
“I sure as hell didn’t do it,” came a raspy voice from behind Katie, which caused her to jump and scurry over to stand beside Cort.
Drake walked into the room, looking no better than the rest of them. In fact, he looked almost as distraught as Katie.
“Dude, do you remember what happened last night?” Saxon asked.
Drake shook his head, his strange expression not fading. Hell, maybe Cort looked the same way.
This was beyond weird. They’d all blacked out. They all had hangovers. And clearly someone had broken a cardinal rule and crossed one of their human acquaintances. He looked toward Katie, who seemed to be getting paler by the moment.
Quite possibly, she’d been turned into a vampire against her will.
He suspected he was becoming as pale as she was.
This was bad.
Damn, he couldn’t have been the one who bit her. It went against everything he believed in. But he could admit, at least to himself, he’d wanted Katie enough to think about biting her. He’d thought about having her in every way possible—but all he’d allowed himself to do was think about it. Hell, he hadn’t even asked her out. His vampirism always stopped him.
But apparently that isn’t a stumbling block anymore, he thought wryly.
But wow, she was a vampire. What if he had bitten her? No, he just wouldn’t have done that.
“Well, like I said, I didn’t do it,” Saxon repeated, as if he’d read Cort’s mind. “I’m all about safe sex.” He pulled a condom out of his jeans pocket. “See.”
Wyatt glared at the youngest band member. “What the hell does a condom have to do with crossing a human over? What, do you put them on your fangs?”
“No,” Saxon said, making a face like that was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. Clearly he didn’t listen to himself. “I have a motto: Keep ’em sheathed.”
Everyone stared at the dopey keyboard player.
“Get it? I keep my fangs sheathed and my . . .” Saxon glanced down toward his crotch. “Brown sugar sheathed.”
Cort grimaced. “What does that even mean?”
Saxon made his
you’re so dumb
face. “I’m talking about my
penis
.” He whispered the last word.
“I know that,” Cort said, getting impatient with this whole situation. “But you aren’t black.”
“You don’t have to be black to have a . . . you know.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Wyatt growled, “why even bother, Cort?” He stood and strode over to the window. “We need to figure out what happened last night.”
“And I need to find my damned fang.”
Now it was Drake’s turn to gain everyone’s attention.
In response he curled back his lips to reveal a gaping, black hole where his fang should be.
Cort, Wyatt, and Saxon all gasped. Holy crap. Having one fang was like having one testicle. You could still get the job done, but you didn’t want anyone looking too closely while you did it.
“That sucks, dude,” Saxon said.
“It really does,” Wyatt agreed.
Cort opened his mouth to also agree—fang loss was no laughing matter—but Katie spoke first, her voice high-pitched and bordering on hysterical.
“Wait, wait, wait,” she said, raising a hand to stop them. “You are all vampires. You’ve all been vampires? As long as I’ve known you?”
Wyatt nodded as if that should be pretty obvious. Saxon gave her a hang-loose sign—because, well, he was stupid.
“I’m half the vampire I used to be but, yes,” Drake said.
Cort gave her a pained, apologetic smile, but nodded.
“So it must have been one of you that made me this way?” She tilted her head to show them two already healing puncture wounds, then she bared her teeth like Drake had just done to reveal two white, sparkly, and brand-spanking-new fangs.
“Show-off,” Drake said wryly, but his dry sense of humor was met by a glare from Katie.
“Perhaps not the best timing for that joke,” he conceded.
“Maybe it was one of us,” Cort said, only to be cut off by the adamant denials of the others, but he raised a hand to stop them. “But since none of us can remember, it’s hard to say.”
Katie stared at him for a moment, then said slowly, “So there are more vampires in the Quarter than just you guys?”
Before Cort or any of them could answer, a sudden whoosh and flapping sound echoed through the room, followed by a high-pitched squeaking.
Katie squealed, too. “A bat!” She ducked closer to Cort.
“Now, who the hell is that?” Drake asked, frowning up as the black winged creature circled the room wildly.
“Who?”
Katie said, looking up at Cort with wide, wary eyes. “That bat is a person?”
“Well, not a person exactly, but maybe another vampire,” Cort said.
Her gaze shifted to watch the bat, her expression a combination of disbelief, dismay, and fear.
“Although sometimes a bat really is just a bat,” Cort added, hoping that might calm her. It didn’t seem to.
“I bet that’s Bob,” Saxon said with certainty. “You know how he always gets stuck in bat form when he gets drunk.”
Cort didn’t know, and he suspected none of them knew. Hell, Cort wasn’t even sure who Bob was.
“Bob?” Katie said. “Bob the bat.” She laughed, and Cort was pretty sure she was getting hysterical again. It was startling to see the always smiling, always sweet Katie totally falling apart, but discovering you are a vampire definitely did that to a person. In fact, he’d seen worse reactions. Much worse.
He slipped an arm around her, expecting her to pull away, but to his surprise, she sagged against him, the laughter dying on her lips.
“It’s okay,” he murmured to her.
“No, I really don’t think it is,” she murmured back.
“What the hell is Bob doing?” Wyatt said, ducking out of the way just as the bat swooped toward him. The bat made a sharp turn and dove toward Wyatt again. “Saxon, call your stupid friend off me.”
“He’s probably still drunk,” Saxon said.
“I don’t care,” Wyatt said. “He’s going to get caught in my hair.”
“Bob, stop it,” Saxon cried at the circling bat.
Katie laughed again.
All of a sudden the flapping sound grew louder, and something red flapped into the room, joining Bob in his frantic race around the ceiling.